Sorry
by TooManyChoices
Summary: Season three minor spoilers. Set just before the end of 'the empty hearse. Fluff. JohnLock if you squint really hard.


WARNING: Spoilers for Season 3 Episode1.

Missing Scene: This scene takes place toward the end of 'The Empty Hearse' a short time before the final 221B Baker Street scenes culminating in Sherlock facing the press.

Standing in the doorway of Sherlock's room, Mary was leaning her back casually against the doorframe. In less than two hours, the flat would be full of people, but in this small window of time, there was just her, John and Sherlock and she was grateful for a little quiet in what she suspected, would be a frantic day. The sounds of tea cups and plates rattling carried from the kitchen and Mary marvelled again at the effortless way John seemed to have reintegrated into normal routines at 221B.

Not that things were the same, not by any means. John had returned home last night well after dark. He'd been virtually aglow with adrenaline and in the dim light of their bedroom had talked of bombs and abandoned railway stations and terrorist plots. There was clearly more to and from John's odd pauses in the story she suspected he was leaving details out to avoid alarming her. As the night wore on and John's frantic energy reduced to more manageable levels, he'd shared more of the detail; the true danger, Sherlock's again careless handling of his emotional state and finally sketchy details of John's forgiveness, the last mumbled while held in Mary's arms, both of them in tears by the end. It had been cathartic, trusting and honest and Mary was left in no doubt that although Sherlock had returned to his life, John had no intention of diminishing her part in their future.

Mary watched Sherlock bustle around the bedroom and considered her insight. Yes, it was good news that she was fond of Sherlock. She genuinely liked him; liked the mystery of his odd personality, liked his quick mind and quirky humour, and liked the effect it had on John.

Lost in her musings, she almost missed the flash of red on his shoulder as he turned, shrugging on a clean shirt but it was startling enough against the pale skin to pull her up short with a question.

"Sherlock?"

Not ceasing the movement, Sherlock responded with a quizzical, "Hmm?"

"What's on your shoulder."

At this point, Sherlock had his back to her and with a furrow to his brow, he looked back as if expecting to find a misplaced tag hanging there, "Where?"

"No. Under the shirt. I thought I saw blood."

"Oh that," A shrug, "It's nothing."

"It didn't look like nothing. Did you and John get hurt last night?" Mary responded worriedly, now concerned that John still hadn't shared the whole truth with her.

Sherlock turned and saw the confusion on her face, the mistaken assumptions and the shake in her confidence written clear on her face.

He strode across the room to her and placed his hands on either shoulder looking down into her eyes, "Mary, it's nothing," he said more firmly, "these are from before I returned."

"Show me." Mary's voice was unwavering. Demanding evidence to support the proposition.

Sherlock started back briefly, eyes widening slightly as he considered. Then with a resigned shrug and a nod, he undid the three buttons he'd previously secured and eased the fabric off his back as he turned to show her the healing wounds down his back.

"Hell Sherlock, who did this?" Mary whispered as she surveyed the wreckage of his skin.

"It doesn't matter. It's over now."

"It certainly DOES matter. This is a mess," reaching out, Mary's fingers paused ever so slightly above the battered flesh, "JOHN!" Mary called to the kitchen, "Bring the first aid kit."

Sherlock tried to stop her, "Mary...no. Mycroft had them cleaned" The sounds of John's footsteps hurrying to join them without question rattled the floorboards.

"Shut up. These need re-dressing. Oh Sherlock, what did they do to you?" The tone in Mary's voice changed to sympathy as she tried to comprehend how such damage could occur.

As John looked down the hallway, Mary's head blocked his view of Sherlock's back before she tilted to the side and the map of red lines and gouges came into view. Mary glanced over her shoulder and caught John's eyes, reflecting the pain she saw on John's face at the sight.

John pulled up short, an involuntary expletive slipped from his lips as he lowered the kit to the floor and simply breathed for a moment, before taking the final steps to joint them in the doorway.

Sherlock, his back still turned to them both, tried to lighten the mood, "Really, you'd think the two of you had never seen a little scratch."

Mary stifled a laugh by covering her hand and looked at John's scowl before shrugging helplessly. It was as much the craziness of the situation as Sherlock's words that brought her to the edge of giggles, and she picked up the kit to give herself time to settle.

"Come into the sitting room so I can get a better look." John's clinically detached 'doctor tone' would allow no argument and Sherlock followed along willingly as they relocated; John ended up dragging a chair from the kitchen to sit on, leaving Sherlock sitting on the coffee table and Mary facing them both, sitting on the couch.

John attended to his back, removing dressings from a couple of the deeper cuts, bathing and disinfecting, checking for signs of infection and generally 'tutting' over the entire area. Meanwhile, Mary sat and pulled Sherlock's hands into hers, filling the silence with interesting and obscure facts about garden plants, the increased number of migratory birds this season and anything else she thought would distract from the pain of redressing the wounds.

What Sherlock found more interesting was watching the seamless dynamic between John and Mary. The way they glanced at each other over his shoulder, wordlessly communicating when a particularly bad spot was about to be attended to and Mary's flawless adaptation, throwing in a particularly fascinating fact at those moments to pull his attention away from the tug and twitch behind him. And yet he didn't feel excluded from the process, it was as if Mary and John had expanded their circle of focus to encompass his needs as well as theirs.

As the cleaning progressed, Sherlock slowly and quietly shared the story of the last two years, explaining the 'why' of his fall and the aftermath. Occasionally, John or Mary would ask a question and Sherlock would try his best to clarify, sometimes stumbling to find the words and Mary noticed a frown of concern cross John's face as she realised that being at a loss for words was not something John associated with the detective. She wasn't sure what it meant, but if it worried John, it was likely important.

Finally, when the cleaning and dressing was complete, John laid a careful hand on Sherlock's shoulder and quietly said, "There, done" before standing and stretching to ease tense muscles. Sherlock stood and turned and reached to take his discarded shirt from Mary, who hadn't realised she'd carried it into the room with her.

Sherlock shrugged on the shirt and turned to John. "Thank you. Mary was right, it did need cleaning."

"She usually is...right, that is." John smiled up.

"I'm beginning to see that." Sherlock turned back to Mary, "Thank you."

"You're welcome Sherlock. Oh, and Sherlock..." Mary caught his glance and held it.

"Mmmm?"

"I'm sorry"

Sherlock looked surprised, "Why? What for."

"For what happened to you. You've spent the last few days apologising and it seems to me that the last two years have been difficult for you too." After a moment's consideration she added, "You really didn't have much choice did you?" Mary was looking to Sherlock, but was also looking to John, past Sherlock's shoulder knowing John would understand her message too.

"I didn't think so...no." Sherlock looked to the floor, "I...It wasn't the option I wanted to choose."

"Then I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to choose it." Without pausing or asking permission, Mary stepped forward to enfold Sherlock in her arms. His head tucked down on her shoulder as his arms wrapped her in a grateful hug that gave little sign of dissipating soon. Mary looked over Sherlock's shoulder through the tangle of dark hair at John as an audible sigh left the taller man she signalled with her eyes to her fiancé do something or they'd likely be stuck here all day.

John smiled fondly at them both and moved around the coffee table. Tapping Sherlock on the shoulder, he loosened one of his long arms from around Mary, but instead of signalling the end of the hug, he stepped forward into the circle of their arms to join them whispering, "I'm sorry too" before pulling Sherlock's arm around him.


End file.
